The Overnight Guest(55)



“Eat,” he ordered and sat down in a chair across from her.

The girl snuck a look at her mother, who was now curled up in a ball on the floor. “Don’t look at her,” her father said through a mouth filled with biscuit. “Eat.”

The girl picked up a piece of chicken and took a bite. Though the food was cold, it was delicious. She felt terrible for eating in front of her mother but could not stop. Across from her, the girl’s father spooned the food into his mouth with exaggerated relish. “So good,” he said through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. After picking all the meat from a piece of chicken, he dropped the bones with a clatter to the floor next to her mother.

The girl hated him, but still she ate. The food disappeared from her plate, even the coleslaw, which she thought tasted bitter. Her stomach felt stretched and full, but still she couldn’t stop. She ate one biscuit, then two, and didn’t complain when her father refilled her plate. When her father wasn’t looking, she hid bits of food in her lap beneath the table.

Finally, she laid down her fork and shame, hot and sour, filled her throat. Her fingers were slick with grease and oily crumbs clung to the front of her shirt. Her father laughed. “Good, right?”

It was all the girl could do to keep the food in her stomach. Her mother was cowered on the floor, weak with hunger and fear, and she had eaten without her. She felt disloyal, wicked.

Her father pushed back from the table, stood, and began clearing the nearly empty cartons from the table. Instead of storing the leftovers in the small refrigerator, he made a show of shoving them into the garbage can.

“What do you say, peanut?” her father asked.

“Thank you,” the girl said in a small voice.

He stood over her mother, looking down on her with disgust. Her mother braced for another blow. The girl dared not move for fear of spilling the food she had hidden in her lap to the floor. “Grat-i-tude,” he said, drawing the word out. “A little bit would be nice, now and then.” He waited but her mother remained curled up on the floor. He drew his foot back as if to kick her mother and the girl let out a whimper. Instead, he lightly tapped her with his toe. “What do you say?” he asked as if talking to a child.

“Thank you,” her mother said, but she didn’t sound thankful at all. Those two words had something new in them. A touch of steel that was never there before.

“You’re welcome,” he said lightly and then stepped over her. The girl held her breath until he was across the room, up the steps, and out the door.

She waited a few beats longer and then picked the scraps of food from her lap and set them on the table before going to her mother’s side. “I’m sorry,” she whispered in her ear. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have eaten without you.”

Her mother smiled up at her. “It’s okay. I’m glad you got to eat.”

“I saved you some,” the girl said. “Do you want me to bring it to you?”

Her mother shook her head, her arms wrapped protectively around her midsection. “I think I’m just going to lie here for a few more minutes,” she said, her voice tight with pain. The girl went to the bed to get a pillow and tucked it beneath her mother’s head.

Her stomach roiled and churned. She felt sick, but she didn’t want to throw up. She never wanted to feel that hungry ever again. She went to the garbage can and began pulling out the discarded cartons of food. Using a spoon, she scraped the remnants, no matter how small, onto a plate.

When she finished, there was a meager amount of chicken, biscuits, potatoes, and coleslaw. The girl carried the plate to her mother and sat on the floor next to her. “Here, Mama, you have to eat this.”

Her mother shook her head. “No, you eat.”

“I did,” the girl insisted. “I’m full. This is for you. Please eat it.”

Wincing in pain, her mother pushed herself up from the concrete floor and sat cross-legged, her back against the cold wall. The girl pressed the plate into her hands. “Just one bite,” she urged. Her mother lifted the fork to her lips and with tears streaming down her face, began to eat.



30


August 2000

At 4:00 p.m. Agent Santos pulled into the parking lot of St. Mary’s Church. Many unique locales had been used for command centers over the years, but a church was something new.

Santos stepped through the main doors into the entryway and was met with the familiar scent of the churches from her childhood. The woodsy, smoky smell of frankincense and myrrh resin that had permeated the red carpet and the stone walls.

Instead of crossing into the nave, Santos took the steps that led down to the basement. In just a few hours, Randolph had managed to set up quite an impressive command post: computers, printers, phones, radios, and local maps.

Sheriff Butler and several deputies sat in folding chairs at a table that had been set up in front of a whiteboard. Agent Randolph stood, dry-erase marker in hand, jotting down notes in his neat print.

“What have we got?” Santos asked, pulling up a chair. “What happened with the possible sighting in Nebraska?”

“Dead end,” Randolph said, shaking his head. “Two teens. Kid swiped his parents’ truck to take his girlfriend to Lincoln for the day. He panicked when he saw the state trooper and took off. There have been no other sightings of the truck,” Randolph added.

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